


Revenant

by ryme_intrinseca



Category: Stanton & Barling - E.M. Powell
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26630686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/pseuds/ryme_intrinseca
Summary: Ghosts do not exist, but men can be haunted nonetheless.
Relationships: Aelred Barling/Hugo Stanton
Comments: 6
Kudos: 2
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Revenant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> Set after the events of _The Monastery Murders_.

The muffling weight of the snow came upon them, silent and fast. Stanton pulled his collar up and put his head down over his horse’s neck, making himself as small as possible against the biting chill of the wind.

Wiping wetness from his eyes, he looked back and cursed. Barling sat straight in the saddle, the hood of his black cloak clutched beneath his chin by a red-raw fist. The clerk’s features seemed to have thinned; he looked no more than a child’s drawing of a man, cold and wet and frozen through.

God help them if a blizzard came on. Stanton eyed the heavy-bellied grey clouds with wariness. The road was still clear over the moors, but for how much longer would it be safe to traverse? Already the flurrying snow was sticking in fat flakes to the gritstones and hardy dark spikes of gorse. The track was rutted, the ground iron-hard. If an accident befell one of the horses out in this wilderness, it could be fatal for man and animal both.

Stanton shrugged deeper into his garments. He’d survived worse than this. His employment as a King’s messenger meant he’d experienced a full range of weathers. No, it was not for himself that he fretted. He was worried about his companion, the King’s clerk, Aelred Barling.

Barling hadn’t had a good deal to say since they’d left Fairmore Abbey. True enough, it had been a place of great evil, and the things they’d encountered—the memories Barling had been forced to revive—were enough to put any man off speech for a time. Even so, little since had broken through Barling’s shell. Not even Stanton’s admission this morning that they’d taken the wrong path at the headless cross had roused so much as a glint of ire from the fussy clerk.

It wasn’t natural, Barling being so quiet. He should be chattering on about some obscure point of law, or trying to impart some kind of moral lesson. God, how Stanton would welcome a lesson right now. Anything to indicate that Barling was feeling more himself.

Instead the clerk was sunk so deep in thought he appeared not to notice the rapidly worsening weather.

Stanton sighed and set his face forward, breathing in the tang of winter. Please God, let them come across some kind of habitation soon. The clouds were lowering yet further, day merging into evening and the wind taking on a hard edge he didn’t like.

The soft pats of snow had sharpened almost to hail and dusk was drawing on by the time he spotted a cluster of dwellings a little way off the route they travelled. Only from long experience did Stanton recognise the narrow track, all but obscured by the snow, that led down to the village.

“There,” he called, raising a gloved hand to point at the few glimmers of light. “Let’s seek shelter for the night.”

Barling nodded, or perhaps it was a trick of the half-light.

Another quarter-hour brought them to the village. That was a generous term for the collection of houses and barns that spraddled a flattened ridge on the side of the hill. A squared-off church of grey stone stood well back, as if keeping its distance from the centre of the settlement. Snow-draped fields gave way to rocky ground and black-branched woodland. Beyond that, dense forest lapped at the open expanse of the moors.

From down in the valley, Stanton could hear the rush of water. The sound made him shiver.

The horses shambled to a halt outside a meagre-looking tavern. Snow lay thick on the roof, save for a circle around the chimney that showed the dirty thatch beneath. The shutters were closed, but sat so awkwardly in their frames that light and noise bled out. Stanton ignored the puddle of mud outside the door and the rotten timbers in the window-frames. All he wanted was light and warmth, and the chance to drown this day in several tankards of ale.

He alighted from his horse and shouted for a groom. While he waited for the lad to appear, Stanton went over to help Barling dismount.

“I don’t think I can,” the clerk said peevishly. “Stanton, if I get down from here, I fear I will never be able to get back up.”

“I’m here,” Stanton told him. “I’ll help you.”

Whether it was this reassurance or just eagerness to be no longer a-horseback, Barling swung a leg awkwardly over the pommel and flopped from the saddle. His cloak hushed after him, stiff with frost. Barling landed as gracelessly as a sack of potatoes and stumbled in the snow-churned mud.

“I’ve got you.” Stanton caught him and held the clerk tight for a heartbeat. Barling’s hood slid back, revealing his pale face pinched with cold and his tonsured hair damp and bedraggled. He smelled of horse, wet wool, and some other scent that Stanton associated only with Barling—parchment and ink and sheer determined thought, if such a thing could be made flesh.

“Thank you, Stanton, but I’m quite well.” A small but forceful hand pushed at his chest, and Stanton released his companion.

“Right. I’ll go and see about a couple of rooms, then.” Stanton stepped back as a stable lad came trudging to attend them. “I’ll order us some food and drink, too.”

Before Barling could remind him to ask for water, not beer, Stanton had pushed his way through the tavern door. He ducked to avoid a low cross-beam, and straightened up into a sullen silence broken only by the snap and pop of the fire smoking in the hearth.

He was used to this, and smiled around cheerfully at the thin amount of locals who sat drinking. A smile diffused any situation. Especially when there was a comely lass to smile at.

The young woman behind the bar dimpled at him. Striking rather than pretty, her hair was the shade of ripe wheat, and she had a way of twitching her hips that would distract any man. Well, any man interested in women.

Stanton grinned at her, making his admiration plain. A glance at the glowering, thickset fellow who came to stand beside the girl—her father, maybe, a man who wore his years heavily, and whose hair was more grey than brown—persuaded Stanton to moderate his expression.

“Y’can have a summat to sup, but aren’t no rooms here,” the man declared, folding his arms, before Stanton could state his business. “Not that kind of place.” 

“What kind of place is it, then?”

“Sawlith is God-fearing, that’s what it is.” The bartender shifted his weight on his feet, drawing attention to the stout cudgel stashed on a shelf by the half-casks of beer.

A villager seated close to the fire laughed at that.

“Shut your mouth, Peter. You’ll frighten the gentleman off.” A gleam in the bartender’s eyes told Stanton he wouldn’t be sorry to see that happen.

“I’m not easily frightened, friend.” Stanton found his most charming smile and wondered if he should offer to stand everyone a drink. His purse would stretch to it; there were only four men in the tavern, apart from the girl and her father.

“We’ll see,” the bartender said cryptically, then gave a start and crossed himself as the door swung open in a gust of frozen air to admit a hooded figure. “There’s two of you?”

Barling brushed at the glistening flakes of snow clinging to his cloak and lifted his head. “My name is Aelred Barling. I am clerk to the King’s Justice, Lord Ranulf de Glanville,” he announced in his usual peremptory manner. “Have you acquired rooms for us, Stanton?”

“No, sir.” Stanton didn’t like addressing him thus. After all they’d been through, their relationship was more one of equals, but it did occasionally pay to play up Barling’s rank and influence. Aiming a beaming smile at the bartender, he continued, “Apparently there are none available, sir.”

“Nonsense.” Scorn heated Barling’s tone.

“I fear it’s true, good sirs.” The girl came out from behind the bar and dropped a curtsy. “The thatch has been leaky since before Epiphany, and someone,” she glanced at her father with an irritation matched only by Barling’s expression, “hasn’t seen fit to mend it, so’s our upstairs room is damp and cold, and not good enough for the likes of the King’s men.”

“There must be alternative accommodation.” Barling folded back his hood and swept his piercing gaze around the cramped space and at the villagers inhabiting it.

The man who’d laughed, Peter, stared at the clerk’s tonsure. Bobbing a bow from his seat, he asked, “A priestly man, are you, sir?”

“Of a sort.” Apparently aware that further explanation was necessary, Barling added, “Though my expertise lies mainly with the civil code established by his Grace the King, I am considered an authority in all aspects of canon law.”

Stanton hid a wince. Boasting of obscure academic achievement was not the way to win over these people.

A murmur arose amongst the villagers. Peter met the gaze of the bartender and nodded. “Aye, Walter, he might be what we need.”

“The gentleman said he was a clerk, not a priest.” Despair hung in the voice of a scraggle-haired man tucked into the corner of the room. He had scarcely touched his ale, and a plate of dumplings in gravy had only been picked at. “We need a priest.”

Peter shrugged narrow shoulders. “God will provide for us in times of need, isn’t that what Father Robert always says? Well, we are in need, and behold, the good Lord has provided us with a man versed in canon law. You can’t get no more godly than that.”

“Barling is indeed a very godly man,” Stanton said enthusiastically. “My Lord de Glanville often remarks on it. And we have just come from Fairmore Abbey, after a time of… reflection and prayer.”

He was twisting the truth only slightly, but the look Barling sent him made Stanton feel as if his feet were roasting in the fires of Hell. Unrepentant, Stanton grinned at the villagers. “Whatever you need, Barling will see to it.”

And if that didn’t drag the clerk out of his black mood, nothing would. A distraction from the circling pattern of dismal thoughts was what he needed, and one day—probably not soon, but one day nonetheless—Barling would be grateful for this intervention.

As he always did when faced with something he found unsatisfactory, Barling frowned. “Have you no priest here?”

“We share Father Robert with another parish down the valley,” the bartender, Walter, said. “He broke his arm in the middle of last month. Word is, he got an ague with it, from lying in a swoon half in a ditch till he was found. He’s laid up with a family the next dale over.” He sucked on his teeth, seeming to weigh his next words. “Until Father Robert’s mended, we’ve none to rule over the Mass or to…”

The room grew quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. Stanton looked from the nervous expression on the girl’s face to the tension and fear etched into the features of the menfolk.

He cleared his throat, subtly catching their attention, and this time he didn’t smile. “To do what?”

Walter swallowed. “Bury the dead, sir. Which is why Daniel Bonnay climbed from his coffin and started walking again.”

~~~

The house of the dead man was the finest in the village. Barling ventured into the sitting room and took quick inventory as Stanton hauled in their bags, dropping them on the floor with a heavy double thump. About to utter words of chastisement, Barling closed his mouth when Stanton went onto his knees and began to lay a fire in the hearth.

Golden hair glinted in the first few sparks. Stanton leaned down, blowing on the kindling flame to encourage it. He had tossed aside his cloak, and his garments clung to his broad, muscular frame. Barling indulged himself in a single stolen glance, then turned his gaze resolutely away.

He padded about the room, examining the contents of the shelves and casting an appraising eye over the rough wall-hanging that shivered in the curl of a cold breeze. Snow patted at the shutters. One must be loose, to let in that chilly breath. The room still bore the trace of Daniel Bonnay’s life, not just in his goods, but in the scent of beeswax candles and dried meadowsweet strewn in the corners, of cold timber and the welcoming aroma of pinecones catching and burning in the heat of a fire.

“You should make yourself comfortable.” Rising to his feet, Stanton gestured to the carved wooden chair close to the hearth. “Bonnay isn’t going to be using it again.”

Barling grimaced at his companion’s flippancy. But it was true, all the same. Daniel Bonnay had been dead these weeks past, and until the snows cleared, his heirs, who lived in a distant shire, wouldn’t be able to lay claim to the property. He, Aelred Barling, King’s man, had every right to commandeer the house for himself and Stanton. Especially as the villagers had requested his assistance.

Not that they had couched it in as many words. Indeed, there had been a great deal of incoherence and a lot of wild talk, unfortunately fuelled by ale. Even Stanton had succumbed, both to a tankard of beer and to ridiculous speculation. But it had seemed to do the young man good, to sit amongst simple, ordinary fellows and discuss something other than the horrific murders at Fairmore Abbey.

Those events rarely strayed far from Barling’s mind. The knowledge that Philip had chosen him last year as the crowning figure of a murderous spree would stay with him for the rest of his days.

He sat, settling his shoulders against the backrest. Bonnay must have been a tall man; Barling’s feet skimmed the floorboards. He curled his hands in his lap, feeling warmth seep into his body by slow degrees. God be praised, but he thought he’d never feel warm again.

Stanton prowled about, as nervous as a cat in a thunderstorm. “I’ll unpack,” he said, and picking up their bags, went exploring.

Barling’s eyelids drooped. Weariness clamoured at him. The day had been long and arduous. With any luck, he would sleep deeply tonight and not be troubled by dreams. Perhaps he should have imbibed some of the ale offered by the innkeeper. Stanton always seemed to sleep like an innocent babe after a drink. But Barling remembered too well the effects of alcohol from when he was a student in Paris. It roused rather than soothed, fired his blood and freed desire, made him want…

He jerked back into wakefulness, blinking. The heat of the fire soaked into him, but a shiver ran the length of his spine. Barling clutched at the worn armrests and listened to the house breathe.

From above came the tread of Stanton’s booted feet. Wind gusted in a moan beneath the eaves and rustled down the chimney, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearthstone. A shutter worked loose on the other side of the room and banged in its frame. 

Barling jumped when Stanton said, “I’ve made up the bed.”

He hadn’t heard his young friend return, but that wasn’t the reason his heart continued to race. “Bed?”

“It’s big enough that we can share.” The guileless blue gaze slid away. “I don’t fancy sleeping on the floor, not on a night like this.”

As if in agreement, the loose shutter banged again.

“The latch must be broken.” Stanton went over to the shutter and secured it. “No, it’s just working itself free. In the morning I’ll get some tools and mend it. But don’t worry,” he added cheerfully, “the bedroom is all snug, with a well-drawing fire and a pile of quilts to keep us warm.”

A thickening silence fell. Barling stared into the dancing flames and fretted. Two men sleeping in one bed. Ordinarily, in the wider scheme of things, this would be quite unexceptional. Travellers stranded in bad weather frequently had to share bed and bedding. But this was different, because Stanton knew about Barling’s past. Knew about his hopeless passion for a fellow student, all those years ago. Passions that had turned carnal, and would, Barling knew, rage into life once again if he let slip his rigid self-control for even a moment.

And he was certain this time they would burn all the brighter, for having been suppressed for fifteen long years. And this time, they would burn for a young man who was wholly deserving of such affection, but unaware of the regard in which he was held.

Barling twisted his fingers together. Back at Fairmore, Stanton had seemed remarkably casual about Barling’s confession. But Barling knew to his cost that men could say one thing and mean quite another.

Another shiver racked him. The last thing he wanted was for Stanton to develop a disgust of him. Not that his companion treated him with any sign of disdain. It was all rather peculiar. As if Stanton genuinely didn’t care about Barling’s proclivities.

No, that wasn’t right. Stanton cared, but not about that. Barling puzzled over it as if it were one of Zeno’s paradoxes. Could it be that Stanton cared about… him?

The object of these heartfelt ponderings sat on the hearthstone and warmed his hands. In profile, and with a sombre mien, he was as beautiful as a carved angel. It was only when he turned to face Barling that the full weight of his charm was apparent, even now when a crease of worry appeared between his brows.

“Do you think it’s true, what they said?” Stanton asked, eyes wide. “About the dead man walking again?”

Barling considered the question. After the rather unprepossessing welcome they’d been given, Walter had insisted that they stay and sample the fare at the tavern. The girl had brought out dishes of warmed dumplings in a meat gravy and a heel of bread, along with ale for Stanton and a cup of ice-cold water for Barling. Stanton had fallen upon the meal with enthusiasm. Though hungry, Barling ate sparingly, surrendering one of his dumplings to his voracious young companion.

Apparently glad of a hearing, the villagers gathered around to tell the tale of Daniel Bonnay. Walter the innkeeper told how Bonnay, one of Sawlith’s leading citizens, had lived alone for the past few years, content to stay in his home and paying others to care for his flocks and go to market. He was rarely seen out and about, but went often to church. Not to pray or give thanks to God, but to rail at Him for various injustices and slights, both real and imagined.

A paroxysm had carried off Bonnay, and his body had lain undiscovered for a ten-day. Fortunately the snows had come, and the air was frozen, and when the corpse was found, it was hastily placed inside the fine wooden casket that Bonnay had had made for the purpose. The coffin was borne to an outbuilding on the edge of the village closest to the church, and was locked inside until Father Robert could return to conduct the burial.

But then the lock was discovered smashed, the door wide open, and the lid of the coffin on the earthen floor of the makeshift morgue. The body had vanished, and a set of footprints had been found in the snow, heading for the forest. Men had followed the tracks, but after a short distance they came to a stop, and no more could be spotted anywhere near about.

In the days after, rumour and fear shambled about the village. Some claimed that Bonnay had never been dead, but had simply been in a deep slumber. The majority, however, declared that, for his abuse against God, he had been cursed to return, a living corpse.

The carter’s wife was the first to see the reanimated Bonnay. Early one morning, she witnessed it wading through the snow towards the trees hard by the church. When she screamed in terror, the walking corpse turned into a crow and flew off, cawing horribly.

Stanton had given a gleeful shudder at that, Barling remembered. But his companion’s rapt expression had quickly turned to unease as the innkeeper, with interruptions from his customers, continued the tale.

The blacksmith, Thomas by name, encountered the living ghost down by the river. Thomas had been breaking the ice in order to catch a fish or two when the ghost walked close to him, and with burning eyes and ravaged face it called him by name in a voice that sounded as if it came from within a hollow jar.

Thomas immediately tried to lay hands on the creature. The telling of this part provoked laughter amongst the villagers. Seemingly, Thomas was overfond of alcohol and was a belligerent sort, the kind that, with a few ales inside him, would fight Christ Himself. A walking corpse held no fear for him, and so he grabbed at it, and the spirit had _laughed_.

The narrative had broken off at that point as the villagers debated as to how, exactly, the ghostly laughter had sounded. The majority came down in favour of a cry of ‘hoo, hoo, hoo’.

“Like a tawny owl?” Stanton had asked in apparent innocence, and when all had agreed that yes, the cry of a tawny owl was very similar to the laughter of the ghost, he’d raised an eyebrow at Barling.

Returning to the tale, Walter had related to his rapt audience that, after laughing in the manner of an owl, the ghost had turned into a bale of dark cloth. Stupefied, and by now in fear of his life and mortal soul, Thomas had run back to the village. There he’d made known the urgency and importance of his plight and gathered a group of his fellows. Armed with cudgels and spades, the men had strode down to the spot by the river, but the cloth—and the living ghost—had gone.

Aware that Stanton was awaiting an answer, Barling stretched his warmed limbs and said carefully, “I think they _believe_ it to be true.”

“Only powerful ghosts can effect transformations.” Stanton’s voice cracked on a shiver that shook his whole body. “The sooner we leave this place, the better.”

Barling rubbed at his chin, feeling the scratch of whiskers. He disliked being untidy. First thing tomorrow, he would have a shave. “The villagers appealed to us for assistance,” he said mildly. “We should look into the matter.”

Stanton stared at him. “The matter? Barling, it’s a ghost!”

“There’s no such thing,” Barling said, injecting his tone with the appropriate amount of certainty. “Mark my words, Stanton, there is human agency behind this so-called apparition. In fact, I doubt there is much—”

He broke off, his throat dry and the words shrivelling on his tongue. The shutter had worked its way loose again, and as it swung back he glimpsed a face at the window.

Cold fear doused him. Barling jumped up with a cry, heart pounding.

Stanton was on his feet in an instant, putting himself between Barling and the window in a protective stance. His eating knife glittered in his hand. “What is it?”

“At the window. There was— I saw…” Barling couldn’t find the vocabulary to explain the sight. The face belonged to a lost soul, the skin pulled tight to the skull and the eyes brilliant points glittering from within shadowed sockets.

He took a deep breath and mastered his emotions. “Someone was there.”

Stanton’s jaw set. “Stay where you are.”

Barling had no intention of arguing. Instead he suffered an anxious few minutes, standing stock-still while the fire crackled and the shutters swung open and banged closed once more. Summoning his courage, he crept towards the window—only for his wits to scatter again when Stanton showed himself in the gap between the shutters.

“Sorry.” Stanton’s grin looked a little wild.

Barling put a hand to his breast and exhaled, relief and nervousness making his legs weak. His pulse continued to race. Admiration at Stanton’s bravery, perhaps.

Stanton brushed a thin rime of snow from the outside windowsill and peered around at the woodland behind the house. “There’s nothing here now.”

“Good.” Barling wished he could say that the face had been nothing more than a trick of the light and an exhausted mind, but he knew what he’d seen. Shaking off the thought, he said, “Come back inside, Stanton. You’ll be getting cold.”

The young man ducked away. Moments later he was back indoors, sliding the bolt across the front door. He returned to the chamber, knocking snow off his boots, and swung a sharp look at the shutter. His mouth in a grim line, he went over and fastened it, then jammed it shut with the ironwork poker he took from beside the hearth.

“It’s stopped snowing,” he said, making his way around the room, ensuring that all of the shutters were closed and latched securely.

“Excellent.” Bone-weary in the aftermath of the excitement, Barling sagged back onto his seat. “Tomorrow we’ll be able to follow the footprints our visitor left behind. They should assist us in ascertaining his true identity.”

“That’s the thing.” Stanton turned, a strange look on his face. “Barling, there are no footprints.”

~~~

Stanton woke to a muffling silence, a warm body curled around him. He was hard, and pressed against firm flesh with a murmur of pleasure. A familiar scent teased him, and he nuzzled closer—encountering not the long, silken hair of a woman but the short, but no less soft, tonsured locks of Barling.

The clerk still slept, puffs of sound escaping his lips as he dreamed. His face had softened, the lines of anxious control smoothed out. Like this, he looked vulnerable and… well, rather comely.

Stanton supposed he should move away, but when he began to edge across the mattress, Barling mumbled something incoherent and rolled towards him. Perhaps it was only warmth and comfort the clerk sought, but Stanton flattered himself that Barling missed him.

So he stayed, nestled there in the dead man’s bed beneath a pile of fine quilts, and let his mind wander. First to the tale of Daniel Bonnay, then to the man Barling had seen at the window last night.

Never mind that Barling had said, just before he’d blown out the candle and settled into bed last night, that he’d been mistaken, and he hoped Stanton would forgive him for sending him out in the snow for nothing more than a wild fancy. Stanton knew his friend had seen something—some _one_ —there. And if that someone still lurked in the woods here about, he and Barling would uncover the truth of it together.

Movement beside him brought Stanton’s attention back to his companion. Barling woke slowly through layers of sleep. It was pleasant to watch him rouse, a drowsy smile wreathing the normally austere features, a twinkling light in eyes just coming into focus. It would be even more pleasant, Stanton thought with a twist of lust, to rouse him in a different manner; one that would benefit them both.

But that was an idle daydream, and Barling would never consent. He would suspect Stanton of mocking him and accuse him of wanton cruelty. He would shun Stanton’s company and request another messenger for future cases. And then they both would be miserable.

Stanton sighed and felt his erection wilt. It was for the best.

“Stanton!” Barling came fully awake, apparently horrified even at the chaste distance between them. Probably he was aware of Stanton’s diminishing hard-on, though with all the quilts heaped on top of them, the outlines of their bodies were barely visible. More likely he could feel from the warmth on the sheets that they’d cuddled close in the night.

Barling’s face was pink with embarrassment. His hair fluffed about his tonsured scalp, and he combed it with his fingers as if to remind himself of his status. One stubborn lick of hair stuck up behind his left ear, an endearing sight. 

The quilts were thrown back, and Barling exited the bed in haste. He stumbled around the chamber then opened the shutters to let in a pale stream of sunlight. His breath came out in a cloud, and he shivered, his slim frame stirring beneath the long shirt he’d worn to bed.

“There’s no time to waste.” His voice had resumed its hectoring tone. “Get up, Stanton, we have things to do.”

Quite content to lie abed a while longer, Stanton folded his hands behind his head and enjoyed the sight of Barling’s body through the fine linen garment, backlit by the sun. “How did you sleep?”

The blush returned, flowing over Barling’s cheeks. He looked away, out of the window at the thick layer of snow glittering on the lower slope of the roof. “Like a babe in a cradle.”

A glow of delight started in Stanton’s belly. He’d been witness to Barling’s nightmares since they’d left Fairmore Abbey; heard them and wished he could go to his friend, to offer comfort. Always, a wall had stood between them. But no longer.

“Although,” a flicker of humour curled Barling’s mouth, “you snore like a hundred woodpeckers knocking at a tree.”

Stanton flung a pillow at him, scattering a trail of duck-down.

Barling evaded it easily, laughing. It was the most joyous sound Stanton had heard in a long time.

~~~

The coffin of Daniel Bonnay was a solid example of good workmanship. Stanton focused on the neat joints and the quality of the wood, rather than on the lid that lay on the iron-hard ground. The lid that had been heaved from the lower part with the brute strength of a demon, for along one side the wood had split, sheared off to show pale slivers.

Barling paced to and fro by the door, examining the broken lock. His black cloak brushed the glinting snow crystals, and his footsteps made barely a noise on earth frozen into tortuous shapes. The owner of the makeshift charnel house had left them to their investigation, mumbling an excuse about work to be done elsewhere, but Stanton had seen the man’s fingers making signs against evil.

He couldn’t blame the fellow. The idea of a corpse rising again, breaking out of its coffin and battering down the door… It was the stuff of nightmares.

But for some, nightmares took different forms. He slid his gaze towards Barling, who now walked with resolute step towards him and the trestle that held the lower half of the coffin.

Stanton moved to intercept him. “There’s no need for you to look.”

“On the contrary, there is every need.” Barling almost prickled, then he softened, laying a hand on Stanton’s arm. “I trust your judgement, be in no doubt. This isn’t about our case. It’s…”

He had no need to explain. Stanton nodded and stood aside. Foolish of him to want to protect Barling, but he couldn’t help it. Only a few weeks ago, Barling had been nailed inside a coffin by the murderous Abbot of Fairmore. A coffin already occupied. Barling had been trapped there in the frozen darkness a good number of hours. He must have been terrified out of his wits.

Stanton knew if it had been him in the coffin, he’d have gone stark staring mad. But, apart from a gasp of wholly understandable emotion when he was rescued, Barling hadn’t spoken much about the experience.

It looked as though that silence would continue. Stanton had half-hoped that sight of Bonnay’s empty coffin would encourage his friend to speak, but instead Barling kept his own counsel.

The clerk gathered his garments so they wouldn’t touch the coffin and bent over the lower portion. He sniffed his fastidious nose, though the brutal cold had ensured there was little to smell. He eyed the stains leeched into the wood. His fingers tightened on his cloak, then he released the thick-napped wool and swung away.

Stanton followed him outside, casting a glance at the broken lock as they went. Barling pattered back and forth in a wide, careful arc beyond the outbuilding, breathing deeply. The air smelled of the sharp snap of winter. Stanton took a few cleansing breaths, too. 

“The lock was broken from the outside,” he offered.

A faint smile from Barling. “I imagine you have an extensive knowledge of breaking and entering.”

Stanton grinned and rubbed a hand through his cold hair. “That’s a terrible slur on my character. I only ever enter where I’m invited.”

Barling’s smile warmed very briefly, then was gone. He stood silent, his attention on the line of the woodland climbing the slope. The church stood to their left. A broken fence demarcated the village boundary. An unnecessary gesture, as even with the thick draping of snow, Stanton could tell that the ground between here and the forest was rough and uneven.

As they watched, a crow landed on a fence-post. Against the thin blue sky, its plumage was so black it seemed to suck in the daylight. The bird flicked its wings, then rocked in a savage _caw-caw-caw_. The sound rolled down the valley, but went unanswered.

The carter’s wife had seen the living corpse turn into a crow. Was it the same bird?

“Men do not rise from the dead,” Barling said, as if well aware of Stanton’s thoughts. “Not ordinary men. And neither do they transform into crows.”

“How do you know?”

“It is a fact of canon law.”

Startled, Stanton looked at his companion and saw again the brief curve of a smile. Warmed by it, he shook off the mood engendered by sight of the crow and went towards the stretch of rough ground.

Any prints had long since vanished. Even so, he turned from the outbuilding to the forest, gauging distances and angles. Crouching, he tested depressions in the snow, plunging in his fingers to measure the depth. These hollows could be the imprints of footsteps, filled in by later snowfall, or they could be the result of uneven land.

Barling’s shadow fell across him. Stanton glanced up, but his friend looked not at him, but at the tangle of the woodland perhaps a hundred yards distant. From here, breaks in the trees were visible. No longer presenting the appearance of an impassable wall, individual specimens could be made out—pines and oak, a holly, a spindle-shanked hawthorn, the brown brush of autumn’s ferns.

To some, it was a place that could offer shelter.

“Bonnay did not climb out of his coffin and walk,” Barling said quietly. “He was carried.”

A shudder pattered up Stanton’s spine. “Who would steal a corpse? And why?”

“That is what we need to discover.” Satisfaction in Barling’s voice, and a kind of eagerness.

He needed this distraction, Stanton realised. His companion was a man for whom it was necessary always to be busy, his mind always thinking and planning. This mystery of the missing corpse was a gift. An unpleasant and unwanted gift, to be sure, but Stanton was glad of it all the same.

“We should divide our resources,” Barling was saying, standing a little taller and looking more like himself. “I will question Thomas Blacksmith and Owen, the man who currently cares for Bonnay’s flocks. You, Stanton, will glean what information you can from the inhabitants of the inn.”

The promise of spending time with the pretty barmaid should have appealed, but Stanton felt only disappointment at being separated from Barling. But—he perked up—if he was to gather the vital clue that unravelled the mystery, then Barling might unbend some more, and smile at him again with approval and warmth.

“We will meet back at the house,” Barling decided. “Perhaps you would purchase something for our supper. The dumplings last night were quite agreeable.”

Agreeable, indeed. Stanton grinned all the way to the tavern. He’d enquire as to a jug of wine, too. Picturing a domestic scene—a fire roaring in the hearth, Barling seated in the chair that was too large for him, a goblet of wine in one hand, face wreathed in smiles and a rosy flush to his cheeks as he praised Stanton’s skills in winkling out secrets—he was still smiling as he ducked inside the inn.

The place was empty. A fire smoked half-heartedly in the grate, giving off a meagre heat. The benches had been wiped down, the surfaces still damp to the touch. From what Stanton assumed was the kitchen came the smell of pastry baking and the warm, rich savour of rabbit stew.

He drew up a stool and leaned on the bar. The cudgel had been moved since last night, he noted. Had there been trouble amongst the patrons after he and Barling had left, or was Walter the kind of man who went out patrolling late at night, in case a walking corpse should shamble through the village?

“Oh, it’s you, sir.” The girl emerged from the kitchen, wiping floury hands on her apron. Her dimples flashed, and Stanton couldn’t help but notice that the imprints of her palms were placed to draw his attention to her breasts and hips. “Can I help you?”

He grinned at her sauciness. “A drink of your ale, Miss…”

“Emma’s my name.” She busied herself fetching a tankard and filling it from one of the half-casks. “And yours, Mr King’s Messenger?”

“Hugo.” He accepted the mug and slid a coin across the bar.

It vanished into a pocket in her apron. “Are you on your way to York, Hugo?”

“Aye, and from thence to London.”

“York must be very fine. All them shops and markets, so many people bustling about. Drapers and silversmiths, and the great minster. Like the centre of the world!”

He hid a quirk of amusement in his ale. To a country lass, York would seem the pinnacle of civilisation. London would mean nothing to her, a place so far distant it might as well be on the moon.

“York is a great city,” Stanton agreed, “with all the things you describe and more. The guilds have their houses and halls, and the river is spanned by a wooden bridge where people set up stalls to attract passing trade. It’s quite a sight. But in truth, Emma, York lacks one thing that Sawlith has…”

She leaned forward, her breasts swelling at the neckline of her dress. “What’s that?”

He made her wait, then dropped his voice to whisper, “A walking corpse.”

Emma stared at him, then gave a shrill little laugh. “You believe Walter and the others?”

“Don’t you?” Stanton wiped foam from his lips and folded his arms, kicking one foot against his stool.

“I haven’t seen the living ghost myself.” Her expression suggested disappointment. “Not that I’m saying anyone’s a liar, oh no. In fact, if old Bonnay is walking around dead, it’s no surprise, given how he treated folk when he was amongst the living.”

“Oh? An unpopular man, was he?”

The girl bit her lip and gave Stanton a measuring glance. “It’s not right to speak ill of the dead, is it? Your friend the clerk would frown at gossip…”

“Bonnay might not be dead,” Stanton pointed out.

“True.” Emma considered a moment longer. “And if he is dead, then he’s been locked out of Heaven for his wicked tongue and vile manners, so probably it doesn’t matter if we gossip about him anyway.”

Stanton raised the mug to her. “You’re a wise lass, Emma.”

She patted at her hair, seeming pleased with his remark, and launched into a description of Daniel Bonnay that made the dead man sound like one of Satan’s captains. He was a miser, a misanthrope, a man who rejoiced in ill-treating his hounds, stealing from the collection plate, insulting the good folk of the village, and deliberately holing a barrel of good wine.

“Was he always so unpleasant?” Stanton asked, dazed by the litany of petty misdeeds.

“Oh no, sir,” Emma told him blithely, “it was the last four or five years that did it. Some folk reckoned him for a nice enough fellow beforehand, though others say differently. It depends on who you speak to, if you get my meaning.” She tipped him a slow wink and edged a little closer.

He gave her his most charming smile. “Who should I speak to, do you think?”

She considered, pushing out her lower lip in a tempting moue.

Stanton gazed at her mouth, pink and ripe, and found himself thinking of Barling’s lips. All too often they looked narrow and pinched, but this morning, when the clerk lay asleep, his mouth had seemed lush. The kind of mouth that would blossom if kisses were laid against it. Specifically, _his_ kisses.

God’s teeth, the time spent in the monastery must have affected him worse than he’d thought! Here was a pretty maid hanging on his sleeve, batting her lashes and tossing her flaxen hair in invitation, and all he could think of was Barling.

Maybe it was something to do with saving the clerk’s life. A special bond, unbreakable once forged. Something that went beyond the merely physical. He’d felt a tremor of it with Agatha, too, when he’d pulled her to safety from the treacherous rocks about the foaming, ice-cold river at Fairmore.

Agatha was gone, but he still had Barling. Like a gift, of sorts. And he, Stanton, intended to take very good care of such a gift.

As if sensing that his interest had drifted, Emma adjusted her apron, fingers deft on the ties, fluttering over her breasts. “Well, Hugo,” her eyes were the blue of the winter sky, but nowhere near as chilly, “it’s Thomas Blacksmith’s wife, Susanna, you need to be speaking to. Her brother Stephen was a right fair man, handsome as the day is long, though he had nothing on you…”

Stanton found a grin for her. “You’re making me blush, Emma, love.”

“…and four or five years ago, around the harvest festival, it was, when Stephen ran off with Helena Bonnay. That was the day Daniel changed. His mood blackened and he hated all folk after that.”

“Helena Bonnay?”

Emma gave him a coy look. “Why, she was Daniel’s wife, wasn’t she, Hugo? A young bride, almost thirty years Bonnay’s junior. The prettiest girl in Sawlith, or so they said.”

She left a pause deep enough for a man to drown himself. Stanton knew what was required. “I doubt that very much. Surely _you_ are the prettiest girl in the shire.”

Her hips twitched and her dimples deepened. She even managed a fetching blush. “Oh, get away with you, Hugo!”

Before he could dish out any more necessary flattery, the looming form of Walter appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. He scowled a greeting at Stanton, then addressed the girl. “Pies are scorching, Em. See to it.”

Bobbing a curtsy, she scurried out back to attend to the food. The innkeeper came forward and, resting his square fists on the bar, treated Stanton to an impassive stare. 

Skilled at reading unspoken messages, Stanton drank up and rolled a second coin across the counter to pay for the beer.

Walter slapped a hand over the silver bit. “Word of advice.” His tone was deceptively mild. “Stop sniffing around my wife, or aide to the King’s Justice or not, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

~~~

Drowsing in the lambent heat of the fire, his belly comfortably full of rabbit pie and his head pleasantly muzzy from the effect of the blackberry wine Stanton had poured him, Barling reflected that he had, in the main, had a most satisfactory day.

His thoughts lingered on his companion. It had been rather splendid to wake up beside Stanton. The young man was like an oversize puppy at times, curling about him and snuffling into his neck. It should have been excruciating, but to Barling’s surprise, it was anything but. In fact, it felt… easy.

His body had roused from its long slumber, of course, and that had been something of a difficulty. But nevertheless, he’d managed to sleep better in Stanton’s arms than he had in weeks. Months, even. Perhaps, if he was truthful with himself, that was the best night’s sleep since the early days in Paris.

He had better not tell Stanton. His friend might take it amiss. Or take it as an invitation. Barling wasn’t sure which made him fret most.

“No more for me, thank you.” He held his hand over his cup as Stanton offered the last of the blackberry wine. Barling had intended to cut his drink with water, but first there’d been the distraction of the food, and then he’d been caught up in listening to Stanton’s recital of events since they’d gone their separate ways around the village, and now he’d supped it all.

Stanton gave him a crooked grin and sat back down on the floor. They could have taken their meal at the table in the corner of the chamber, but somehow it felt more natural to set themselves up in front of the hearth, Barling once again seated in the dead man’s chair and Stanton sprawled like a young animal at his feet. He worried at how it might appear to an outsider, then reminded himself the shutters were all closed—Stanton had mended the broken latch earlier in the day—and the only witness to what passed between them was God Himself.

“So you know the results of my interviews,” Stanton said, and took a swallow of wine straight from the jug. His mouth glistened with wine. “What of your own?”

Barling sat a little straighter and breathed in the scent of pine and woodsmoke. “I spoke to Thomas Blacksmith, who is indeed a man with a penchant for alcohol. I’m surprised he doesn’t ignite when he nears the furnace. He narrated much the same tale as the one Walter and the villagers told us last night: he was beside the river, breaking the ice, when someone hailed him by name. He looked up and saw a thin figure all dressed in black, stark against the snow. The sun was behind the figure, and even when Thomas shielded his eyes with a hand, he was unable to discern the man’s features properly.”

Stanton laughed. “Probably still drunk.”

“More than likely,” Barling acknowledged. “Apparently, the spot he’d chosen to fish was a weir belonging to another villager. Thomas believed he was being challenged on his right to fish there, and made to defend himself. A most belligerent individual, is the blacksmith. I suppose it is an advantage in the occupation.”

A splutter into the dregs of the wine. Stanton wiped his sleeve over his mouth.

“Thomas grabbed for the man, who laughed at him and pulled away. The action unbalanced them both, for Thomas was none too steady on his feet on account of his imbibing. When he regained his stance, he saw that the man had transformed into a bolt of black cloth. That was when he realised he was dealing with a ghost, and as the carter’s wife had seen Bonnay’s living corpse only a day or two previously, naturally he believed that Bonnay had come to accost him.”

“And at that point, he ran away.” Stanton leaned back on his braced arms and looked down the length of his body towards the fire. The soft light played over his features, calling forth shadows to delineate his strong jaw and cheekbones.

“At that point in our conversation, I dismissed him and asked instead to speak to his wife Susanna.” Barling sat taller in the chair, pleased with the look of surprise Stanton gave him.

“You spoke to a woman?”

“I did.”

“That was well done of you, Barling. I thought I’d have to talk to her myself tomorrow, after what Emma said about Susanna’s brother running off with Bonnay’s wife.” He pushed up into a sitting position, his knees bent and feet wedged against the hearthstone. A sly smile twitched at him. “What of Susanna Blacksmith? Is she comely?”

“I could not say,” Barling gave him a droll look, “but she is a veritable font of opinion about all manner of things. We were talking for almost two hours.”

Clearly astonished, Stanton opened his mouth then shut it again.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Barling said. “I own I was uneasy at first, questioning the woman alone, but I thought to myself, ‘What would Stanton do?’, and I tried… Well, not to be charming, because I fear such a thing does not come naturally to me, but— I have observed that you have a way of listening that endears you, in the main, to others, and I attempted to emulate that.” He felt his face pinkening, and a smile tugged at his lips. “With some success.”

Stanton’s blue eyes twinkled. “With some success, you say?”

“Mistress Susanna told a tale of romance so fine, it should be set to music.”

Now Stanton laughed outright. “You could do it, could you not?” His face changed suddenly, sobering, and a look of anxiety crossed his handsome features. “My apologies, Barling. I didn’t mean— That was clumsy of me.”

Barling had braced for the remark, knowing he’d invited it, but strangely, there was only a pinprick of pain. Perhaps he wouldn’t enjoy being teased about song-writing or singing all the time—indeed, that would grow tedious—but now and then might not hurt. He smiled at the idea. He and Stanton had shared a jest like bosom friends, and the sky had not collapsed upon him.

“It’s quite all right,” he assured his companion. “I imagine there are plenty of songs that detail such events. It is a story one sees across the ages, in all places, when there is a disparity in age and expectation between the bride and groom. But men are foolish when it comes to their pride, and women, I fear, must make the best of their lot.”

He sighed, then recollected himself. “Helena Bonnay was reckoned by all to be a fair maiden. She was wed at fifteen to Bonnay, who had recently turned forty and looked to the duty of breeding an heir. But Helena had formed an innocent attachment to a young man, Stephen Nash. According to Mistress Susanna, her brother and Helena were all April and May. Naturally, once she was wedded to Bonnay, the attachment was broken—or so it was thought.

“Bonnay was a man cautious, one might even say jealous, with his possessions. He included Helena amongst their number. The girl was, Mistress Susanna said, all but imprisoned within this house.” Barling indicated the room in which they sat, with its simple but good quality furniture and décor. “The only time she was seen outside was when the couple attended church.”

“I hope this has a happy ending,” Stanton murmured, gaze fixed on Barling.

“Of a sort.” Lowering his head to where his hands lay knotted in his lap, Barling continued, “Within a few months of the wedding, Helena’s mother—her sole parent—took a fever and lay close to death. The girl begged Bonnay for permission to return home and nurse her mother through her final days. It was while she was about this tender duty that she and Nash saw one another again, and their romance was rekindled.

“But in nursing her ailing parent, Helena contracted the same sickness. Bonnay found her unconscious and took her back to their home. He refused to let her outside again, ignoring the desperate pleas of the dying mother. Indeed, to the shock of the villagers he even refused Helena permission to attend her mother’s funeral, saying she was too ill. No one saw Helena again, save for glimpses of her pale face in an upstairs window.”

Stanton shivered and glanced up at the room in which they’d slept last night. Understanding his concern, Barling said, “The chamber she occupied lies across the landing from our own room.”

“Good,” Stanton muttered. “Poor lass.”

“Well.” Barling unlatched his fingers and aimed for a happy tone. “You will be pleased to know that young Stephen Nash came to the girl’s rescue. He stole into the house one night while Bonnay was in his cups—a lesson there, Stanton, too much imbibing is never good for a man—and fled with Helena into the night. The pair were tracked as far as Pickering, but there the trail went cold.”

“From there they could head to the harbour towns and fishing villages on the coast,” Stanton mused, curling a fist to support his chin as he considered. “It’s an easy enough journey from Pickering to York, too, and from there further afield. And it’s not impossible they went north, to Middleburg or beyond.”

Barling nodded; he’d had the same thoughts. “Mistress Susanna said Bonnay raged about his loss until all the trackers he’d sent out after them came back empty-handed, and then he shrank into himself. He turned his back on his neighbours, only attended church to curse the comfort of the Lord, and became a thoroughly disagreeable fellow.”

Stanton exhaled slowly. “I hope Helena and Stephen live happily for the rest of their days.”

“A worthy wish. However, we must consider the application of this romantic tale to the situation in which we find ourselves.”

There was silence for a while as they contemplated the evidence they’d gathered. Then Stanton asked, “Do you think this Nash fellow is the living ghost?”

“It’s possible. It’s been a number of years since the couple ran away, and time can blur most memories.” A drop of bitterness sat on Barling’s tongue. He swallowed it, and fed his soul by studying Stanton’s broad shoulders and warm, open face. “Doubtless he’s changed, perhaps hit by hard times to make him appear thin and gaunt. A superstitious person, upon seeing him unexpectedly, might leap to conclusions.”

“That conclusion being that he’s the dead man, up from his coffin and walking.”

“Perhaps.” Barling shifted his focus to the leaping tongues of the fire. “Helena Bonnay is the dead man’s widow, and due some portion from his estate. Has Stephen Nash come to claim Helena’s inheritance for her?” His thoughts chased one another like loping hounds. “There are other considerations, too. Did word of Bonnay’s death make it out of the village before the snows came? All those I spoke to said not.”

Stanton leaned forward to rub at a scuff on the toe of his boots. “What I’m most curious about is, what does Nash want with Bonnay’s body?”

“That is a question I cannot answer.”

Another comfortable silence fell. Stanton adjusted his position and leaned back, resting his head against the chair-leg. He sat there, inches from Barling’s knee.

Barling stared at the strands of golden hair glinting in the firelight. The heat of Stanton’s body called to him. Barling’s palm itched with the desire to lay it on Stanton’s shoulder, to sift through Stanton’s tousled locks. He had begun to reach out, holding his breath, when Stanton spoke.

“Why do the dead come back?”

“They don’t.” Barling’s voice was abrupt as he tried to cover the rapid beat of his heart and the blush surging to his cheeks.

“Lazarus did.” Stanton tipped his head to look at Barling, a stubborn jut to his full lower lip. “And any number of saints.”

“They were touched by grace. Beloved of God. Martyrs for their faith, or exemplars of it.” To avoid temptation, Barling laced his fingers together and sat back, as prim as a novice monk.

“In the tales, then.” It appeared that Stanton was not willing to give up this vein of questioning. “Why does it happen?”

Barling felt for his thoughts, arranging them in order before he shaped them into words. “Tales of revenants can be found in every country, in all manner of literature.”

“Even songs?” Sleepy blue eyes lifted to him again, and now there was no anxiety, only affection.

“Not in any song I would wish to sing, but I imagine so.” Barling placed his hand on his knee, close enough to where Stanton leaned that he could feel a slight tickle from a wisp of golden hair. “I read of several cases during my studies in which the plaintiff argued that they were harmed by a person from beyond the grave. Sometimes these cases could be dismissed as mere superstition, but others were less clear-cut. Usually the advice was to apply to the Church, and a priest would cast out the spirit. On some occasions, it was necessary to exhume the evil-doer and…”

He paused; he had no wish to describe how some corpses were beheaded, burned, and cast into a lake or river in order to lay them to rest.

“But to return to the crux of your query, it seems that living ghosts come back to their former lives because of things left undone or unaddressed. There are things that tie them to this earthly realm. Slights and wrongs, real or imagined, that must be put right. Or,” Barling added quietly, “those who remain have within them such strength of feeling—of guilt, perhaps, or love, or shame—that they cause the spirit to live, sometimes without realising it.”

The fire cracked. An ember broke into glittering pieces. Above them, the wind slunk around the eaves, breathing darkness and cold into the room.

Stanton stirred and got to his feet. “It’s late,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

~~~

Night was still at its darkest when Stanton woke, jerked from his slumber by the thrashing, panicking shape of Barling. The fire he’d banked hours ago gave off the merest glimmer of light, enough to show him a number of quilts rucked on the bedchamber floor. The remaining coverlets were twisted across the bed, and his companion was tossing and turning like a sailboat on stormy seas.

God’s wounds, but he should have anticipated this. It must have been the blackberry wine, loosening the clerk’s usual restraints and allowing night-time fears to flood into Barling’s mind. Stanton struggled free of the sheets and tried to take hold of his friend, but Barling proved as slick as an eel, squirming free of his grasp.

He should never have let Barling view the empty coffin. And as for that conversation, right before they’d come up to retire—what had possessed him? An innocent enough question about superstition had seemed to take on greater meaning for them both. Stanton’s heart ached. Christ Jesus, but they were both men haunted by their pasts.

“Barling.” He grabbed hold again, digging his fingers around slim shoulders. “Wake up. It’s just a bad dream.”

A whimper escaped Barling, a sound of such fear that Stanton crouched over him, capturing the flailing hands. “Aelred! It’s me, Stanton. Hugo. I’m here, Aelred. I’m with you. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

As his words penetrated the fog of sleep, Barling quietened. Soon the frantic movements calmed, and a soft, uncertain voice enquired, “Hugo?”

Stanton blew out a relieved breath. “That’s me. I’m right here.”

“I was… dreaming.”

“Yes.”

Silence swaddled them. For a long moment, Stanton was aware only of the thudding of his heart and the chill whispering over his skin, the sound of Barling’s breathing and the smell of him, ink and paper and the musky scent of exertion.

At last the clerk spoke. “I thought I was in Paris.”

The darkness hid Stanton’s surprise. “You did?”

“I was afraid,” Barling said simply, turning his face into the open neck of Stanton’s shirt without any sign of embarrassment. “The threat of it terrified me. Made me mute. Unable to move.”

Perhaps he’d been dreaming about the coffin after all. Stanton’s throat felt tight. “You’re talking now. And moving. See? No need to be scared, Aelred.”

“Abandoned.” Barling’s voice was sodden with sleep. “He abandoned me.”

“I won’t leave you.”

A breathy laugh. “ _He_ did.”

Stanton grimaced. Oh yes. _Him_. The aristocratic Richard, who’d used Barling most thoughtlessly before throwing him aside in favour of marriage to a young heiress. What a churl that man was. If ever their paths should cross in the future, Stanton had promised himself a few choice words with Richard. Aye, and maybe a good kick, too.

“Well,” he said stoutly, “ _I_ am not going to abandon you.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Barling relaxed against him, one arm coming up to loop around Stanton’s neck.

It was easy, so easy, to lower his head a little further until their noses brushed.

Barling made an inquisitive sound, but didn’t pull away. His breath, fanning against Stanton’s cheek, stuttered and broke.

Stanton feathered his lips over Barling’s mouth, coaxing from him an ember, a spark. The promise of a flame.

Barling moaned encouragement, and Stanton deepened the kiss.

He tasted blackberry wine and the sweetness of potential.

~~~

Barling found himself singing as he made his ablutions the following morning. A song half-forgotten until he gave it shape with his voice, and then it came easily, the words and melody remembered and embroidered, the song swelling until it filled the whole house.

“That was nice.” Stanton brushed past, shirt untucked and golden hair in pleasing disarray. “Almost as nice as this.” He stole a kiss, so swift that Barling barely registered it and had no time to respond to it.

But perhaps that was the point. Barling pondered for a moment, watching his companion begin to whistle, smiling lips pursed on a rough variation of the song. Stanton smiled some more, his tune becoming ever more ridiculous, until, hesitant at first, and then with certainty, Barling took three quick steps and seized his friend.

They kissed more slowly this time, Barling curious and Stanton eager.

“I am not going to ask if you regret it,” Stanton said when they parted. His eyes glittered and his colour was high, the evidence of his arousal jabbing hard at Barling’s hip.

“I do not.”

The blunt answer clearly surprised Stanton; surprised, then delighted him. He laughed and ran a hand over Barling’s hair, ruffling it up over the tonsured scalp. “Good.”

It _was_ good, Barling realised. In Paris, for a while, he’d felt free. It had been a glorious dream, and he’d been so desperate for it to be real, to continue beyond the bounds of illusion, that he’d let himself be fooled. Not only by Richard, though that was galling enough; no, he had fooled himself. And from that failure to understand himself came the years of lack and want, and the sundering of his nature.

But no more. Stanton had helped him lay the ghost of his past. Barling smiled at the thought. Yes, indeed. They had lain it most effectively.

“You’re happy.”

Barling beamed. It was silly to feel so much like springtime in the middle of winter, but he refused to be ashamed. “I think perhaps I am, Hugo.”

Whatever Stanton might have said in response was left silent. From downstairs came a series of brisk knocks.

Their gazes met. Barling smoothed his disordered hair and ran a hand over his kiss-bruised mouth. Stanton quirked a grin and tugged at his own dishabille. “I’ll go.”

Barling finished dressing and went down into the main chamber. His gaze went first to Stanton, who’d pulled on a jacket but had not yet laced his shirt correctly. The sartorial error resulted in a small but distracting amount of skin on display, a sight that proved tempting not only to Barling but also to their visitor.

“Oh, sir, good morning to you.” Mistress Susanna tore her attention from Stanton’s chest and bobbed a curtsy. “Forgive me for disturbing your studies and prayers and…” she seemed to struggle for what else might occupy a King’s clerk and ploughed on, wringing her chapped red hands, “but I had to come, sir, to confess.”

“Confess?” Barling’s distraction fled. He advanced towards her, cocking his head. “To what do you wish to confess, good lady?”

She flushed beneath his attention and gaped after words. To one side, Stanton frowned and made a gentling motion. Barling narrowed his eyes. Very well, he would do as suggested. They were not in a court of law, after all.

“Please, Mistress Susanna, will you not take a seat? Some refreshment, perhaps…” He glanced around, noticing the empty jug of blackberry wine and the almost full jar of water.

“No, no, sir. That’s not… There’s not time.” The blacksmith’s wife started backwards, grasping at her heavy skirts, the homespun dotted with tiny scorch marks from where she’d ventured into the workshop. “If you’re to hear his confession, you must come now, for he’ll not stay. He didn’t want to linger this long, but I persuaded him, and well, we were always close as little ‘uns and I was sympathetic to his situation, sir, as you know…”

Barling’s wits returned. “Your brother.”

Stanton’s gaze flew to him in mute question.

Mistress Susanna nodded, reached out a beseeching hand. “You understand me, sir. I knew I was right to come to you. I told myself, ‘The King’s man is kind and generous, look at how he listened to you yesterday!’ and so I urged Stephen to wait a while so I could fetch you, and he could make his confession—”

“Are you saying that your brother removed Bonnay from his coffin?” Stanton burst out. “Your brother, who ran away with Helena Bonnay?”

“I only have the one brother, sir.” Her cheeks flushed. “I beg you, don’t judge him too harshly. Only listen to what he has to say.” She darted a look at Barling. “I know you can’t grant him absolution, but you have book-learning and you know the ways of the church. Maybe a penance… But hear him out, please, sir.”

“Lead the way, Mistress Susanna.” Barling gestured for Stanton to open the door. “Let us see this thing done.”

~~~

The forest closed about them. Barling blew on his gloved hands as they followed Mistress Susanna deeper into the clustering trees. A glance over his shoulder showed him how far they had come: her neat prints mostly obscured by his blundering, with Stanton’s broad stride clear to one side. His companion had a hand resting casually at his belt, and he looked about as if interested in the sight of skeletal trees or pines with branches fanned out and weighted down by snow.

They came at last to a clearing of sorts, a meeting-place marked by bits of red bracken wrapped around the trunk of a young oak. Mistress Susanna cupped her hands about her mouth and made a wavering call, _hoo-hoo-hoo_ , like a tawny owl hunting.

A pause, and an answering hoot floated back at them.

Barling reached to grasp Stanton’s arm, but thought better of it. He arranged his features, conscious of the curiosity rising inside him.

From beyond the fringe of trees came movement. Stanton edged closer, his breathing deep and even, his fingers tapping on the sheath of his blade.

Into the clearing came a man, his gait strangely uneven though he was straight-backed and well-favoured in both face and form. He would have been handsome, had his features not been so gaunt and weatherbeaten. His hands were scarred and calloused, his dark hair was limp and untended, and his jaw was rough with a beard. His clothes were a combination of old, faded garments that held the distinctive salt-reek of the sea and some fresher, newer pieces, the latter perhaps a gift from his sister.

Pale eyes examined Barling, then Stanton, then returned to Barling. “You the King’s clerk?”

The simple approach required a simple answer. “I am.”

“This is my brother,” Mistress Susanna said, her voice seeming loud in the woodland hush. “Stephen. Stephen Nash. He came here to—”

“Sue, love. I can speak for myself.” Nash clasped his sister’s hands, then sent a fierce look at Barling. “She wasn’t part of any of this, understand? It’s all on me. You punish me, but not her, all right?”

Stanton shifted position, but Barling made a quieting gesture. “There will be no talk of punishment until I have heard the particulars of the case.”

“You want a confession? Well, sir, here it is: I came here to kill Daniel Bonnay.” Nash darted a glance at his sister, who looked anguished, then he faced Barling without flinching. “Aye, I would’ve killed him and all, but he were already dead. So I took his body from the coffin and carried out my revenge on that instead.”

Only those with good cause or those with disturbed minds would open a coffin to steal a corpse. Barling shuddered. “What need did you have of revenge? From the account your sister gave, it seems to me that Bonnay was the one who had the right of complaint against you.”

Nash laughed, the sound harsh. “Maybe if I’d run off with his wife because we were both young and in love, maybe then he’d have had cause. But it wasn’t why we fled. He was wicked to her, sir. Closed her off from her family and friends. Stopped her from going outside. He only let her come to church so he could show her off, as if she was a prize rather than a young lass. But then I saw bruises on her.” He turned to his sister for confirmation. “Sue saw them, too, didn’t you?”

Mistress Susanna nodded, her face pinched with sorrow.

“Sue told me not to interfere, but Helena and I had been sweethearts before her marriage, and her happiness was important to me. So I asked her straight out at the church door, while Father Robert was talking with Bonnay, if he’d hurt her, and she said yes.”

Stanton made a sound low in his throat and turned his head, his jaw tense.

“I tried to talk to Bonnay, reason with him somehow, but he got it in his head that Helena was unfaithful. The old bastard flew into a rage and beat her, right there beside the church, shouting and carrying on, until the priest urged Bonnay to take her home. He never let her set foot outside that house again.”

Nash shook his head. “Sue was right to warn me, but I thought I knew better. We were innocent together, me and Helena. I never laid a finger upon her, not before she was wed nor after, as God is my witness!” He jabbed a finger at a sky split by cold, then dropped his hand to his side, fingers curling into a trembling fist.

“Bonnay almost killed her with his jealousy and black temper. Evil, he was, forbidding her the nursing of her old ma—he wouldn’t even let her attend her mother’s funeral! He took advantage of her sickness and cut her off from the comfort of her friends and from all she knew, making her world smaller and smaller.

“Sawlith is but a small place itself, but to a lass shut up in a room beneath the eaves, cold in winter and sweltering hot in summer, the notion that she might one day feel again the grass beneath her feet and dip a hand in the river was priceless. And she was that to me, priceless and precious as the Host itself.” Tears ran down Nash’s face and dripped from his chin into the snow. “So I did what any decent man would do. I took her away from the prison that held her, and set her free.”

Barling nodded. No doubt it was Stanton’s influence, but he felt moved by Nash’s story. Logic and order should be upheld, of course, and those who interpreted the law outside the bounds of an appointed court were not to be encouraged—but all the same, Barling couldn’t help but feel sympathy for Nash and Helena.

“We set up house in Wyke and lived there together as husband and wife,” Nash continued. “I found work as a fisherman, and Helena’s cleverness with embroidery soon made her a favourite amongst the ladies of the town. We were happy, and even though the fishing sometimes took me away to sea for long stretches, Helena had friends to support her.”

Stanton had recovered and now wore a half smile, no doubt pleased by the couple’s success, but Barling knew from the emptiness in Nash’s eyes that his friend’s romantic dreams would soon be crushed.

“We were blessed with a child, a baby boy.” Nash’s voice became a monotone. His hands ceased moving and hung limp by his sides. “We were so happy in our little family, so happy. Then I was called away to sea, and the weeks seemed endless. At last I returned with coin in my pocket and a little toy whale I’d whittled in quiet moments on the boat. But when I reached our home, it was sorrow I found, not a welcome.”

Mistress Susanna covered her mouth and let out a sob. Stanton’s expression had paled, his eyes glassy with moisture.

Nash visibly braced himself against the end of his story. “Helena was in a bad way. Our little boy had been called to God, taken by a bloody flux that was sweeping Wyke. Helena had it too, rattling in her lungs and sapping her will. She held on to see me one last time, and with her dying breath she cursed Bonnay for making us live in sin. It was sin that had taken our child, she believed, and it was sin that was robbing Helena of life. She begged me to take revenge on Bonnay for all the wrongs he’d done us.

“I promised, and after burying her and our son, I set out to come home. But when I got here, I found I was too late. For her sake, I took Bonnay from his coffin and stabbed him with her eating knife. I stabbed and I cut him, in Helena’s name, for all the times she was unable to protect herself.”

The fire had gone out of him now, leaving him shrivelled and tired. Nash raised weary eyes to Barling. “That is the truth of it, sir. I do swear it on the soul of my baby boy, gone to his rest alongside his mother.”

In the aftermath of his confession a silence fell, stark and shocking. Mistress Susanna was weeping quietly, arms across her body, her head turned away. Stanton gave Barling a look, one that clearly begged him to be kind.

He let sympathy creep into the silence, then stripped off his glove and laid a hand on Nash’s shoulder. The man jerked as if stung, then slowly relaxed beneath the touch. Indeed, Nash seemed to draw some comfort from it, as if being offered benediction.

After a long moment, Barling asked gently, “Where is Bonnay’s body now?”

“Buried.” Nash gestured towards the tangled depth of the forest. “I am not so ungodly as to deny the man a decent burial.”

“But not a Christian one.”

Defiance blazed in Nash’s pale eyes. “He was not a Christian soul, or he would never have lifted a hand to her.”

Conscious of Stanton’s gaze upon him, Barling reached a decision. He squeezed Nash’s shoulder again and stepped back, aware of the fresh cold air and the raking sunlight, the distant cawing of a crow, and nearer at hand, the creaking of branches weighted with snow.

“This is an action you must carry with you, marked on your soul, for the rest of your days,” Barling said. He put his glove back on, straightening the fingers with exaggerated care. “Go. You will have no punishment from me.”

Nash stared, disbelief writ clean through him. Then his brow cleared, and for a moment Barling saw the boy he must have been, so certain in his love and so sure of their future together.

“Sir.” The fisherman fumbled for his hand, bowing. “I will do penance. Tell me what to do, and it will be done.”

Barling shook his head. “Enough harm has been done already. You have lost those you love; there is no point in compounding the pain. Live, and remember the dead—but do not allow yourself to be haunted by them.”

Comprehension flickered in Nash’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

“I am not the one who deserves your thanks.” Barling was thinking of the lessons Stanton had taught him, but naturally, Nash took him to mean God. Which, at the end of it all, was only right and just.

Mistress Susanna flung herself into her brother’s arms. Barling left them to their sorrow and relief, a bittersweet combination, and waded back to the village through the snow, following his own tracks.

Stanton bounded alongside him, breaths puffing in the cold air. “It was as we suspected,” Stanton said cheerily. “It wasn’t Bonnay’s living corpse that people saw walking about, it was Nash.”

“Exactly.”

“How, then, did he turn into a crow?”

Barling sighed. “The carter’s wife is an excessively silly woman. No doubt she saw Nash, then when her scream alerted him, he dropped to the ground to hide. She, meanwhile, saw the man disappear at the same time as a crow flew up, startled by her cry. The two events, in her mind, became one.”

“Hmm.” Stanton’s eyes twinkled. “And what of Thomas Blacksmith’s testimony, about the ghost becoming a bale of cloth?”

Really, did Stanton doubt him? Barling gave his friend a look. “The blacksmith was drunk, if you recall, which colours his evidence. It seems to me that, having laid hands on Nash, he recognised him or realised he wasn’t Bonnay, and let go. Both men stumbled, and Nash fell into the snow and lay unmoving. To one bemused by drink, it would be easy to mistake a recumbent man with a bundle of fabric.”

Stanton grinned. “Right.” He cast a sly, sidelong glance. “And what of you, Aelred? You seem to have an answer for everything, but is that the case?”

“There was one thing.” Barling let his forehead wrinkle. “It was Nash at the window, our first night in the house. What I cannot fathom is how he came to stand there without leaving any footprints.”

“I can explain that,” Stanton said, a little smugly. “The snow beneath the window was frozen solid. A man moving carefully would leave no tracks, and in those places where the snow was loose, he simply swept his prints away. It’s a poacher’s trick.”

Barling arched an eyebrow. “You are familiar with the ways of poachers?”

“I have many talents.”

“You certainly do, Hugo.” Heat rising to his face—Heavens, was he _flirting_?—Barling hurried the last few paces to the house. “Well, there it is. Another mystery solved.” He closed the door behind them and stamped the snow from his boots, shook it from his clothes. “If only everything in life was as straightforward as that.”

Stanton caught hold of his cloak and pulled, lazily bringing him closer. Blue eyes gleamed; an irrepressible grin curled. “Oh, I don’t know,” Stanton said, affection rich with humour in his voice. “I rather like some things being complicated.”

Barling wondered if he should object to being labelled thus, but decided, as Stanton kissed him most thoroughly, that he didn’t mind at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Details of the ghost's behaviour come from the Byland ghost stories, just to keep things Yorkshire.


End file.
